


would that i could forget you

by kaermorons



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Legends and Myths, M/M, Memory Loss, Slow Burn, Unintentional Humor, ancient gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: After the dragon hunt, Jaskier heads north and finds a legendary river whose waters wipe the memory of whoever drinks from them. When Jaskier loses his memories of his entire life, what happens when Geralt finds him again?LEFT INCOMPLETE 12DEC2020
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 52
Kudos: 266





	1. Chapter 1

While heading down the Kestrel Mountain range felt like traveling south, Jaskier was rather tired of it by the time he reached the slow little town at its base. Almost everyone on the expedition passed him on the return trip, save the Reavers, one bumbling knight, a sorceress, and a Witcher. Jaskier was sure the last one was intentional at this point. Geralt preferred not to speak to those he insulted as gravely as he did Jaskier.

And he didn’t mind, really. He didn’t mind being the scapegoat of every ill-perceived event in the Witcher’s long life. He was surprised Geralt had even left Blaviken out of his tirade, seeing as Jaskier had committed the atrocity of being alive even then. It was really just...fine.

Alright, he was avoiding thinking about it. A broken heart made for broken coin, as bards said, and without Geralt watching his back, he wasn’t able to make as many bold choices without consequence.

But Jaskier was tired of heading south, of being on the same fucking Continent as the man who’d broken his heart, crushed it in his fist with the same effort it took him to crush the autumn leaves underfoot. So Jaskier headed north, to try and find a village in the hinterlands he could haunt through winter. Maybe the cold would take him.

His trip north was brutal. Vast icy plains of salt left him stumbling and delirious, dehydrated and lost. His feet still carried him away.

As the salt plains gave way to blackened earth, Jaskier realized he wasn’t out of the woods yet. He found himself not in fertile lands as he’d thought, but in the midst of fiery mountain ranges, the air burning in his lungs and singing his very eyes as he stumbled across treacherous terrain.

The mountains ended after three days of walking. Jaskier sat at a pond, merciful for its presence. He did not look forward to having to trek back through the fire and ice in the future.

But that was months away, and Jaskier still had miles to go before he’d stop.  _ When the pain in my heart thaws away, that’s when I’ll turn back. That’s when I’ll stop. _ The promise was made by a half-mad part of his brain, delirious from dehydration and exhaustion. He spent the night near the pond, refilling his waterskin after drinking his fill. He didn’t know when he’d see water again.

The very landscape around him looked so different from the lively forests of the Continent. He’d never been so far north, in the dangerous, lethal landscapes past the Dragon Mountains. This was the land of stories told to warn children away from staying out past bedtime, away from trusting strangers, away from ancient rivers protected by gods older than words.

Jaskier gazed north, trying to see what the next landscape he’d have to traverse. The forest which sat about a mile from the pond looked so dense and dark that he could scarcely see light filter in from the canopies. The whole forest seemed to be holding its breath, like Jaskier would walk into its mouth before he realized it had consumed him whole. Jaskier had walked into much more dangerous things than a forest.

Those times had all been with a Witcher by his side, but Jaskier didn’t have the luxury of protection on his adventures anymore. He bitterly rose, and faced the forest with a determined set to his jaw.

He’d probably die on this adventure, but at least he did it on his own. He’d shovel shit on his own destiny, for once.

The forest proved much darker than Jaskier had earlier thought. The density of the trees left no room for sound to carry, and no warmth from the sun. Jaskier was cold and alone and quiet within a few yards of the treeline. He marched on. It was strange not to hear birds or insects or any rodents scurrying around. The trees were each larger than Jaskier could get his arms around. From what he remembered in university, the widest trees were oldest, but these were wide and tall and held an incredible power to them that Jaskier could not fathom. Geralt would probably know all about enchanted trees and flora.

Geralt was not here.

Jaskier walked on, for the pain in his heart had not yet thawed.

He wasn’t sure how long he was walking for, only that he didn’t feel lost whatsoever. “Suppose you can’t be lost if you’re not going anywhere.” Jaskier muttered to himself, the words swallowed by the forest too quickly for the words to carry past his reach.

Some parts of the forest were too lush for Jaskier to possibly traverse, having to turn back and find a new route forward, lest he tear his clothes trying to crawl through thick underbrush. He ran his fingers across the edge of a fern, smiling bitterly at a voice in his head snapping,  _ don’t touch that, bard. _

Jaskier touched every leaf he could after that, with the same careful reverence and curiosity he gave the world he traveled. His legs ached after a few more hours. What were hours to this place? It seemed to exist outside of time. He felt himself grow dizzy just staring up, up, up, at the treetops. The whole forest was so large, it seemed to hold up the sky. He felt very small, indeed.

As his mind settled and he let his body relax, his ears picked up on a strange sound. At first, he thought it was another person running through the underbrush, but the sound was too faint and smooth to be that. Jaskier sat up, looking around. In the dim light, the wind must have picked up high, high above them and moved a few large boughs out of the way. Light poured through the gap for a few moments, reflecting off of a river maybe a hundred yards away. Jaskier stood, and approached it warily.

The banks of the river were even more lush than the forest floor. Incredibly large flora lined the edges for as far as Jaskier could see. The water itself was very clear, but no fish swam through it. He ducked a hand in and found it pleasant, not icy cold as he’d expected from the rest of the forest. He closely observed the water as it rolled off his fingers. It had a slight silver shimmer to it, like how silk would reflect candlelight. A memory from his past, long before Geralt, came to him.

_ Drink not from the Lethe _ _   
_ _ Those silver-spun waters of woe _ _   
_ _ It takes all you have to offer _ _   
_ __ All your grief and all your joy will go

Jaskier scooped his hands through the water again, marveling at the shimmering silver in his palms, dripping between his fingers. Was this river the Lethe? Supposedly, this river was legend older than most kings. Older than all kings. The tales had been written in a language predating Elder. He looked the way it flowed, remembering the tale.

The river Lethe and the god for which it was named was the god of oblivion and purity. Even a day-old child wasn’t considered pure, not with the privilege they were born to, not with the terrible pasts of their lineages. Their blood was tainted before they took their first breath. But those who drank from the Lethe forgot all that, down to their bones. They were wiped clean of any darkness that may have lingered in their veins. It was, of course, at the cost of their memories, the good and the bad, as the nursery rhyme went.

The feeling of the water between his fingertips was incredibly smooth. It’d be perfect to bathe in, to drink from. Jaskier knew the dangers, he knew what would probably happen, if the legends were true.

He’d walked the world with a legend for over twenty years. They were mostly lies and the truth would just break your heart. There wasn’t much that Jaskier was scared of these days besides how much he feared finding another who would crush his heart as precisely as Geralt had. Years of love, of commitment downstream. He’d forget all that heartache if he drank from the river.

He decided he would bathe in the waters of oblivion.

And so passed Jaskier the bard, and all his songs with him.


	2. Chapter 2

A man emerged from a river in a forest. He frowned, for surely there was a reason he was in the river in the first place. He made a confused noise, and, surprised that he could even make noise, made it again, louder. The sound did not carry very far, as there were lots of...well. There were lots of great big things all around him. They looked magnificent, and seemed to look right back at him. The man took his time sitting down, so he could look at the huge things all around him.

As the cold air set in around his wet body, he did the logical thing and jumped back in the river.

* * *

A man emerged from a river in a forest. He frowned at the damp spot on the dirt before him, and put his own hand over the dark hand-shape. They fit! Had his hand been there before? How strange. But now, his hand had dirty brown streaks clinging to it. The man made a face and looked down at his feet, obscured by slightly muddied waters. Picking one foot up, he almost lost his balance, but regained it rather quickly.

“I’m getting the hang of this whole thing,” the man said, observing his wet, but clean, foot. He looked to his dirty hand again and plunged it into the water, letting the dirt sluice off. Standing still, hunched over, he saw a face peering back at him. When he blinked, the other man in the river blinked. When he moved his hand over the man’s face, he disappeared. “Strange,” the man said. He stood up and looked around. He knew he was in a river, in a forest. That was a lot to think about.

The man sat down in the river, letting the current flow around his body. The water felt comfortable, but for some reason he did not know why. Everything felt light, like he’d been wearing an especially heavy something. Wait. Why wasn’t he wearing any somethings right now? The man peered over the green edge of the river and saw a few out of place red things, crumpled on the ground. He tilted his head to the side. They looked very confusing like this. The man realized with a frown that his feet would get dirty if he left the river dripping wet, and decided to leave anyway. He walked over to the red pile of somethings and gingerly held one of them up. “Doesn’t look very pretty,” the man muttered to himself, before deciding to try and sluice the water off of his body as best as he could. The somethings didn’t particularly smell nice, but he didn’t have a particularly wide frame of reference to go off of.

There was a bag of other somethings nearby. It had some soft things shaped like...well like him, and a strange, scribbly thing he couldn’t read. “What kind of nonsense…”

The man tossed the scribbly thing behind him. There was another, larger, stranger thing to look at. Opening the thing, he saw a shiny wood thing, with lines that made more noise as he touched it.

“What a useless thing to have in a forest!” the man exclaimed, despite not knowing the name of it. He determined that since he was the only one around, these somethings were his. There was a shiny something that cut his finger when he touched it. He frowned and threw the shiny something away, far away. The blood welling up from the tip of his finger tasted strange, and definitely wasn’t to eat. “Well. It’s quite cold, isn’t it?” the man said next, rummaging about the bags to find a fire-starter. He knew that fire was warm, and that he wanted to be warm.

The shiny wood thing with the lines that made noise burned beautifully. The lines didn’t make noise as they burned, though. That was a shame. The noise was nice. 

He was warmed for a few hours before the fire started dying. He frowned and looked at the strange scribbly thing. It smelled weird. It’d do better in the fire. He fed it, one scribbly piece at a time. The red somethings also went in after that was done. The man was running out of things to burn, and fast. Why did he have so little things? Surely he must have more, somewhere?

The man looked in the river, pawing around at the rocks at the riverbed. No, none of the rocks were his. He couldn’t burn rocks, that’s for sure. “Well.” the man put his hands on his hips and looked around, coming face to face with…

Another man. Except...he was blue?

“Oh, hello!” the man said cheerfully.

“You seem very lost, pure one.” The blue man’s voice rolled off his tongue softly, but with curiosity and interest. The other man tilted his head to the side.

“Is that my name?” he asked, which made the blue man laugh. Little droplets of water sprayed on the man’s face.

“No, you have lost the names you once had. You’ve taken twice from my waters, no human has ever done that before in all my ages.” The man tried to make sense of what the blue man was saying. “I’ve seen your memories, pure one. You do not want them back.”

“Well, they’re mine, why would I give them to you?” the man asked.

“Many give more than they intended. I just ferry their gifts along.” He looked downstream, but nowhere in particular. After another moment, he looked back. “I see you’ve burnt your lute. A pity. I shall let you keep your heart’s melody, but you must leave these forests, go south. The wild will not come to harm you, pure one.” The man seemed to sink into the river itself, and disappeared with the current.

Suddenly, the man left in the river felt more confused than he initially was. Drying himself off on the bank, he looked at the smoldering remains of...well, his things. He picked up what had once been a piece of the lute the blue man had spoken of. “Sorry about that, lute.”

He’d been told to leave the forest, so he turned on his heel and walked.

It felt longer than anything he remembered, but eventually he made it out of the strange forest. In his bag, he found some things that smelled like they were food, so he ate them without question. He came upon a still pond that looked comfortable, and spent a night under the stars, burning more of his things for warmth. He fell asleep before he could put it out, but the small fire never had the chance to spread. A wave from the pool’s depths put the fire out quickly. The Pure would not die at its water’s edge.

The man continued on his journey south, for that was where he was told to go.

He came upon a clear separation in the earth. Meadowlands gave way to a brittle, black earth, rising as high as the forest had before. It smelled terrible, and the sky was shrouded in a dark dust. The man swallowed a little and entered the mountains with a pang of fear in his heart. He kept his rhythmic steps for as long as he could before exhaustion claimed him, slowing his legs to a sluggish crawl. It seemed the mountain pass had no end in sight.

There was a sudden shift in the air. With a shout, the man stumbled forward under the push of a strong wind. The gust beat at his back, ushering him through the desolate landscape, leading him away from dead-end trails and labyrinthine paths. The man didn’t know how much time had passed, but when he realized he was no longer walking over broken shale and the heat no longer felt like it would singe his bones, he collapsed to the ground. The Pure would not die within the fiery mountain range.

The icy salt flat was a different story. He was not pushed forward across the rocky landscape, but was drenched head to foot in chilling rain. He slogged across the flats with no direction but south, for that was where he was told to go. The man wondered what he would find, for he saw another set of mountains before him, almost as imposing as the ones at his back. He was rather tired of mountains, honestly. The rain at least made certain he would not be thirsty. The Pure would not die on the salt flats.

When he finally breached the mountains, he saw forests again, filled with life. Birds of every color swooped around, and fluffy animals ran before his path. When he stopped to drink at a stream, the water was clear and clean.

The man grew hungry, however. He looked around for something that could be food, and his eyes caught on a beautiful purple flower, with midnight-blue berries. As he reached closer, to possibly pick them, the entire bush seemed to shrivel back from his hand. The berries were hidden in the deepest depths of the bush. He stood back, surprised. “Well what should I eat?” he asked the bush. Rivers spoke, why couldn’t flowers and leaves?

The bush, obviously, did not answer, but kept the berries out of sight. The Pure would not be harmed by nightshade, or any flora.

Eventually, the man found a berry bush that would let him eat from it. He thanked it, rather sarcastically, but continued heading south. His feet hurt something awful, but he knows he can continue going. His heart beat a tune he could not quite articulate. Was that the melody the blue man had spoken of?

“This is a lot to think about,” the man said, not for the first time. He slept next to another fire that evening, which was put out by a rather frustrated nearby stream after he’d fallen asleep. He did not dream.

The trail he followed seemed to turn into a well-traveled road, with strange fences on both sides. Signs he could not read held words he could not understand, though the general feel of them was that it was a warning. He continued on the road warily. 

There was a great crashing noise through the forest that night, getting louder as it approached the man. His heart pounded as he sat up, holding his bag in front of him for protection. Some of the trees around him shook. What creature could spill the blood of the Pure across their trunks?

A horrible looking beast, one that growled and drooled and held the fury of the world in its eyes, appeared before the man. They stared each other in the eye, both as confused as the other. The beast sniffed the air, and nearly recoiled at the cleansing magic flowing through the man’s veins. The beast had killed humans before, children even, but the beast also knew that to draw this human’s blood would be to invite a fate worse than death upon themselves. The stare-off lasted another few minutes before the beast backed away into the dark. The man fell to his knees, shaking all over. The trees seemed to sigh in relief.

The man knew he needed help. He could not continue walking the world alone, lest the courtesy of the wild be revoked.


	3. Chapter 3

The rivers of the Continent do not all follow the same rules as one another. Certain rivers run south-to-north, and others flow in from the sea rather than into it. Brackish waters are found deep in the mountains, still tasting of the ocean, and others flow deep beneath the earth at dizzying speeds, the pressure of which could tear a man’s skin right from his bones.

Not all of them are controlled by gods, or are remotely imbued with magic, but there are two that should be mentioned.

The Lethe is the river of oblivion, and the god who it is named for rules its currents. Before humans or even elves walked the Continent, before the Convergence of the Spheres, Lethe was quite bored. Memories of the creatures that walked in the surrounding forests, and that drank and gave to its waters, were quite simple-minded. When the humans came, Lethe discovered that pain and joy existed in the same place as one another: in the heart. He dutifully took these memories from their keepers, and passed them along the stream to his wife.

The Mnemosyne is the river of knowledge and wisdom, and the goddess who it is named for rules its waters. While it took awhile for Lethe to appreciate the gifts he was giving his wife, she loved each one. She learned the secrets of how and why the trees grow, the happiness of meeting a new child, the sadness of being left alone on a dark night. Mnemosyne has many tributaries to her waters besides her husband, trailing in from the south, running underground in a network of rivers that man had yet to discover. As she is, of course, a magical river goddess, her waters run in all colors imaginable.

At the confluence of the Lethe and the Mnemosyne, the rivers pass gifts to one another, gifts taken from the minds of others. With the knowledge Lethe had passed to Mnemosyne, she gave back the ability to make those lost creatures Pure. It was a dying concept to many. Mnemosyne holds all the memories and knowledge of the world in a secret lake, deep underground. She has had many plead at her shores, wishing for memories back. However, she guards her treasures fiercely, and never granted their wishes for reasons more than ‘please’.

Of course, like all rivers, not all gods followed the same rules as one another.

There is Melitele, the Three Ladies, who watches over really whatever the humans want her to. Lilit, who, as a goddess of the night, really deserved better than half-baked prophecies tied to her name telling sorcerers to murder innocent children. Svalblod, violent and demanding of sacrifice, has luckily lost popularity over the eons he’s spent in Skellige. While these gods all bent the knee to Destiny herself, there was one that existed...outside of the law.

Mesmer.

All creatures lost things. Teeth, prey, mates, eyes, paws, lives. Those that could be reunited with their lost things were watched over by Mesmer. He brought soulmates together, attracted friends and lovers, pushed away enemies, but humans had to make everything so damned complicated. Frustrating things, those. Mesmer was a bit of a musician, playing at the strings of fate like a lute only he could hear. He enjoyed helping cheaters lose, and a good game of hide-and-seek with children from time to time.

Something was pulling him north, very north, and very urgently. While he hadn’t deliberately disobeyed Destiny’s orders in ages, he certainly didn’t want to dally on his way to whatever she had planned for him. He swept up into the sky, an eagle-like sharpness as he looked over the lands. When the urgent tugging stopped, he landed, looking around for something out of place.

Finally, he saw a man. He exuded Purity with such strength that Mesmer nearly faltered in approaching him. Listening to the song of this man’s destiny, Mesmer could hardly hear anything. This man should have been a symphony of color, noise, happiness and song. Instead, all that remained was a steady rhythm in his heart. Mesmer swooped down to the ground and observed him closely.

The man was walking through the forest, away from the trails humans normally walked. His hand remained outstretched as he walked, taking note of which bushes swayed toward him and which ones away from him. He may have lost many things, but he was obviously a fast learner. Mesmer knew his name to be Jaskier, and that the harmony of his song was gone from his side. A witcher and a bard. What a lovely song that made for.

Mesmer finally showed himself to the man. Unsurprisingly, he startled. Mesmer wasn’t the most comforting thing to see, with his strange, many-pocketed robes and wings that spanned as wide as a house. The man blinked at him. “I’m starting to think I’m the strange one, here,” he muttered. Mesmer laughed unexpectedly.

“You seem to have lost something.” Mesmer said politely. “It’s a bit beyond my control how much of it I can return. Nemmy doesn’t really like me, you see.”

The man nodded, but he did not see.

“I don’t know what I could have lost.” The man looked in his bag. Sure, he’d burned the other things he had, but did that really qualify as ‘lost’? “Who are you?”

“Mesmer. Call me Mez.”

“Mez.”

“I’ll call you Jaskier.”

“Jaskier.” The word sounded strange aloud, but felt right on his tongue. Mesmer seemed to find some sense of accomplishment in hearing the man—Jaskier—say his own name. “Well. I still don’t know what I’ve lost.” Jaskier put his hands on his hips, a favored position.

“A great many things, to include your memory of them.” Mesmer said, walking down the road a bit more before speaking again. “I’ll start with getting you to your Witcher.”

“What’s a Witcher? Sounds spooky.” Jaskier—for he was Jaskier!—said.

Mesmer, one of the oldest gods on the Continent, sighed, and said, “Oh boy.”

* * *

Jaskier grew used to the ache in his head from learning things. He found new names for things: jacket, hair, feathers. Mesmer was very accommodating to all of his questions. “Why do you have two names?”

“What?” Trust a memory-wiped bard to confuse an actual god.

“You have two names! Mesmer and Mez. Why do you have two?” It had been a very long time since Mesmer had dealt with the Pure, and he had to call upon his ancient stores of patience for this.

“They’re the same name. One of them is shorter. Mesmer seems a bit formal at times. You have two names.” Jaskier seemed to screech to a halt at that.

“I what?”

“Yes,” Mesmer said, amusedly. “You have two names. The first, well, the one you don’t use as much, the formal one, is Julian Alfred Pankratz. You even had a title, viscount of Lettenhove.”

“Wait wait wait, hold on! What is. That was more than one name. One of my names is three names!” The poor human looked like he was going to pass out. “Three?”

Mesmer knew that letting this human come to harm was worse than most of his bad ideas, and just patted Jaskier on the back awkwardly. “There, there. That’s just the way things are, I suppose. Humans are weird, why  _ do _ you have three names, that’s…”

“You say human like you’re not one too. Do humans not look like you? Should I be afraid of humans?” Jaskier panicked.

“Within good reason.” Mesmer sighed. “And no, humans generally don’t have massive wings trailing behind them.”

“That’s. Well. That’s...kind of disappointing.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is  _ bummer.” _

“Bummer!” Jaskier said excitedly.

“Oh, boy,” the god said again.

* * *

They reached a larger settlement of houses, and Jaskier gaped as Mesmer folded his wings up into nothing. “Where did they go?” he gasped.

“Pocket dimension. I think that’s a bit too advanced for humans as a whole, though, so let’s just go with ‘away’ for now.” Jaskier nodded. Mesmer said strange things often, and almost just as often told him it was better if he didn’t know.

“How many things are there that I shouldn’t know?” Jaskier asked.

_ Oh, we’re getting philosophical now. _ “Oh, well. That’s not my place to say. I don’t even think that’s Nemmy and Lethe’s place to say, but here you are. Such wild work they do. Totally unpolished, if you ask me.”

Jaskier nodded. “Do you know the blue man?” he whispered after another mile. Mesmer looked down at him with a curious look on his face before looking back ahead.

“His name is Lethe. He’s the god of the river you probably woke up in.”

“I did wake up in a river!” Jaskier said delightedly. “That’s incredible. I also woke up in a forest, and next to a pond, and by another river, but nobody talked to me in that river, so I was very confused—”

“The world is inconsistent if you look closely enough.”

“I have to agree with you, there.”

“You have to agree with me. You don’t know anything.”

“Well I know that was quite rude.” Jaskier pouted at the god.

“You’re about to know what a smack to the head feels like.”

* * *

Mesmer didn’t like to pay attention to things like town names or regions. They were his least favorite nouns. Besides, it’s not very often that entire cities go missing. And there’s usually a good reason. Walking with Jaskier had him recalling the names he tried hard not to know, explaining that Velen was to the south and east, and that Kerack was almost directly to the west. Jaskier spent the next hour repeating “Kerack” over and over, as it was an interesting name.

“You can ask your Witcher to go to...that place. But he is in Aedirn, so we need to get a move on. I don’t want to hear you say it for another ten miles.” Mesmer growled. Jaskier just skipped happily along. Other passing humans regarded the pair strangely, but Jaskier just saw a look as a look, and didn’t know anything of scorn or bewilderment. Mesmer was saddened by this realization. This was why he didn’t like working with the Pure. They broke their own hearts too many times to count.

The road to Aedirn was long, but Mesmer knew they were on the right track, Jaskier’s thin line of Destiny stretching from him and through the trees, around the next bend in the road, and on. Mesmer did wonder what would happen when he got Jaskier back with his Witcher. Mesmer knew they hadn’t parted on good terms at all, but with each step, the thin line from Jaskier’s heart grew stronger and stronger. He magicked them food and water in the evenings, and kept a fire going while Jaskier slept. No harm befell him. Not even the gods would let harm come to the Pure.

They finally reached the country after about a month, though time was much different for Jaskier than it was for the rest of his species. Mesmer’s hold on his physical form was getting itchy. He longed to disappear into the ether to be with those of his own kind. “Jaskier,” he said, the evening before they were to find Geralt. “When we find your Witcher, I will need to leave you with him. I cannot stay.”

“Why?” Jaskier asked, his favorite word.

Mesmer sighed. “I cannot dwell with humans for this long. It is not...it is not how I live.”

“Oh.” Jaskier looked down at his hands, frowning. “Oh, my chest hurts.” The bard clutched over his heart. “Why does it hurt?”

_ I’m taking a four hundred year vacation. _ “It’s sadness. Or heartburn. Listen, I don’t—”  _ No, no, you idiot, don’t do it. _ “I don’t normally do this, but. I’ll see you again, someday.”  _ WHY. Mesmer you are the god of idiocy. _

Jaskier’s face lit up. “That sounds wonderful, Mez.”

After awhile, Mesmer finally spoke. “It does.”


	4. Chapter 4

The town that Mesmer had tracked the Witcher to was nondescript and had been burned down enough times in recent memory that Mesmer just never found it worth remembering the name of. He had to explain his aloofness to Jaskier enough times that “it’s a god thing” became commonplace in their conversations. Jaskier always nodded like he understood, but Mesmer knew he didn’t. He appreciated the effort, at the very least.

As they drew closer, an hour or so after daybreak, Mesmer stopped and tilted his head to the side, listening. He heard an easy melody, a duet of a deep baritone with a higher soprano over top. Ah. Destiny fulfilled, it always sounded sweet and melodious. “What is it?” Jaskier asked at his side.

“I think we may find your Witcher and a surprise with him.” Mesmer said cryptically. Jaskier was used to it by now. Still, anxiety swept over him as he tried to look between the trees, some sign he could decode what the god had said. “They won’t be long.”

“Will you,” Jaskier paused. “Will you explain it to them? I’m not sure I have enough information for them.” Mesmer’s expression softened at the nervous tone the man was trying to keep from his voice.

“I’ll stay until I’m sure you’re in good hands, Jaskier. I promise you that.” Mesmer felt his own tension fade as he saw Jaskier’s worries slip away. “Remember, he already knows you, and has for over twenty years. He wouldn’t turn you away in your time of need.”

“Well, I’m not sure of what exactly I need, though.” Jaskier muttered to himself, adjusting the strap on his bag.

“Most humans don’t. My best advice?” Mesmer waited until Jaskier looked him in the eye. “Find out what pleases you. Do that, and whatever you can to keep doing it.”

The town hadn’t seen anything resembling “better days” for centuries. Buildings long abandoned looked almost better than the ones still inhabited, and the crops lay half-dead as they walked the road in. The dilapidated town centered in a little square that looked well-walked as passersby tried to get away from the wretched place as quickly as possible. Jaskier, obviously, didn’t seem to know this, as he had not seen the gleaming windows of Novigrad or the lively and colorful streets of Oxenfurt. Well, at least not recently.

Mesmer had to squint to see Jaskier’s line of Destiny against the bright morning sun. It led him to an inn, or a building at least masquerading as an inn. Jaskier was quiet, taking in his surroundings the same way he’d taken in suddenly standing in a river with no memory of how he got there. There were several other people there, all humans! They looked just like Jaskier, and didn’t seem surprised that he was there, gawking openly at them.

Mesmer found a table for the two of them to sit at, and listened to the upper floor of the inn, hearing a Witcher clumsily hissing orders of “stay here” and the unsheathing of a sword. Silver, by its ring. Mesmer smirked and shook his head. Never had he met a Witcher without being threatened. Something about the medallions they wore, jumping every which way. Surely, the presence of a Pure One next to him only exacerbated that paranoia. Mesmer sighed and relaxed.

“What are we waiting for, Mez? I thought we were looking for someone?”

“If there’s one thing about Witchers I know better than most, it’s that you have to let them,” A pair of boots thumped angrily down the stairs nearby. “Come to you.”

Jaskier jumped nearly out of his skin when a shining blade  _ (much _ larger than the one he’d had in the forest with him at the beginning) suddenly pointed itself steadily at Mesmer’s neck. Though his friend did not move even a muscle, or seem the slightest bit concerned, his own heart was pounding irregularly in sheer terror. He turned to face whoever was threatening them, a protest ready on his lips, when—

“Jaskier?”

The man looked up at the other in front of him, the one with the weapon. He had hair as white as the clouds in the sky, every shade of silver and white that could exist in nature. His eyes gleamed yellow and animalistic, and Jaskier felt a shudder run through his spine as the weight of that gaze passed over him. He blurted the first thing he could think of.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Silence painted confusion and tension in broad strokes across the inn. An old man coughed once, not enough to break that tension, but enough to break Jaskier’s focus, eyes flicking away from the yellow-eyed man before him.

“Jaskier?” the man asked again.

“Yes, I’m Jaskier, I’m waiting for my Witcher, if you’ll be so kind as to lower your rather large…”

“Sword.” Mesmer offered.

“Sword!” Jaskier said, finishing his proclamation with a nod. “It’s very rude. I think.”

“It’s a little rude.” Mesmer said, still smirking.

“Shut up.” The sword man growled. The low noise sent another delightful shiver through Jaskier’s spine. “What did you do to him?”

“He did nothing to me.” Jaskier said, moving in front of his friend and catching the edge of the sword against his jacket, the blade slicing the fabric a bit. Jaskier gulped a bit but did not waver. “Quit being rude. I’m waiting for my Witcher and you’re being...all rude and swordy.”

“Swordy’s not a word, Jaskier.” Mesmer said calmly. “And,” Jaskier turned. “He is your Witcher. Geralt of Rivia.”

The bewilderment on Jaskier’s face showed plainly. “Again with the three names? If he’s my Witcher, why’s he pointing a sword at you?”

“Probably because of that clever trinket telling him to.” Mesmer nodded at the strange necklace the Witcher wore, with a large pendant in the shape of...well, Jaskier could identify a circle, and that was about it. “Witcher, we mean you no harm. If you’ll sit and listen, I think you may find several of your questions answered.”

Surprisingly, the Witcher took his seat next to Jaskier, who tried his best not to shy away, especially from that sword. Mesmer rested his hands on the table where the Witcher could see them, calming him a bit. Jaskier held himself very, very still, hardly breathing at all.

“Talk.”

“You sense there’s something off about your bard.” Mesmer began, and the Witcher nodded.

“What’s a—”

“Not now, Jaskier.”

“Fine.”

“He’s been on quite an adventure since you departed on the dragon hunt. I found him wandering the forest near the base of the Kestrel Mountains, but he’d been much further north than most humans had ever been, and came back alive from. He’s lost all his memories of his life, up to two months ago. I took him along his Destiny’s path to you.”

“Destiny’s a load of—”

The Witcher, Geraltofrivia or whoever, stopped speaking when Mesmer flashed his eyes a bright green-blue, iridescent and brilliant in the dim light of the inn.

“I’d not speak ill of another while their kin sits across from you.” Mesmer said evenly. The Witcher sighed and looked up, searching for something by his expression. Jaskier looked up as well, trying to see what was so interesting. The Witcher looked down at Jaskier, pinning him in place with those incredible eyes, beautiful and terrifying all at once. “I have done my part in reuniting you, and getting you up to speed, but that’s all the courtesy I’m willing to spare.” Mesmer got up from his seat, and Jaskier stood as well. “This is where we say goodbye, Jaskier.”

That tight pain in his chest returned tenfold, but lessened some at the memory of Mesmer’s promise in the forest the previous night. “I’ll see you again.” Jaskier said, almost asking, making sure he didn’t misinterpret the promise.

“You will. Take care, Pure One. Find what pleases you.” Jaskier did not see, but the Witcher’s eyes showed a sharp pain. Mesmer walked out the door without looking back, and Jaskier knew that if he were to run outside right now, he would not be there.

“Gods, right?” Jaskier said, breathing out harshly on wobbly lips. He fiddled with the strap on his bag.

“Let’s go upstairs.” The Witcher said, taking him by the arm and directing him. Jaskier had never encountered  _ stairs _ before, and almost landed on his face at the first step. The Witcher made a shocked noise, but walked a little slower as they ascended. Jaskier was whisked through a door, and suddenly in a small room. A smaller human sat on a bed, with long hair like the Witcher’s, and just as pale. Her green eyes held a wary curiosity in them.

“Hello!” Jaskier greeted. “I’m—”

“You’re Jaskier!” the small human said. “You’re Geralt’s bard!”

“Yes, well, I’m Jaskier, but I have no idea what a  _ gursbarg  _ is.” Jaskier tried to explain. The child looked shocked.

“Geralt?” they asked, looking up at the Witcher for answers.

“Something’s happened to him. He doesn’t have any of his memories.”

“He knows his name.”

“Yes, I knows his name.” Jaskier added, putting his hands on his hips and frowning tremendously at the Witcher. “Even without your sword, you’re still rude without even speaking, Greg Riviera.”

“Geralt. Of Rivia. Call me Geralt. Gods, this is. Let’s all just be quiet for a few minutes.” The Witcher sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “You know what? We need to go find Yennefer. Yennefer will have answers, and oh, I’m talking to myself, that’s. That’s great. Ciri, pack your things.”

Things moved very fast with the Witcher—Geralt. Apparently. They’d hardly been introduced to one another before they were going and finding some Yennefer or whoever.

“Geralt, you said he was...strange. But this is—”

“I know, Ciri. Things. Pack.” Jaskier watched the exchange with interest. Geralt turned to him. “Why did that...thing call you Pure One?” he growled.

“My  _ friend _ has a name. He has two names, in fact. His formal name is Mesmer.” Jaskier said, crossing his arms. “The other is Mez. But he didn’t say for you to call him that, so don’t.”

“It’s—he. Is very powerful, Jaskier, and very dangerous.”

“Yes, well of course I know that, he’s a god!” Jaskier said. “Obviously.”

Silence resumed its painting of tense confusion.

“You were walking. With a god. And he didn’t give you back your memories?” Geralt had his hands in fists. Even the small child seemed tense.

“That’s not for him to fix, he said. He said my memories are further down the river from where I lost them, and there’s a whole thing about a sister in law not liking him and—”

“River? You lost your memories in a river?” The small child spoke.

“Yes!” Jaskier exclaimed. Finally, someone understood what he was saying.

“Geralt, we need to go see Yennefer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: this is gonna be an angsty angst-fest! I'm gonna make readers CRY!  
> Also me: let's just make everything a happy funny little adventure!


	5. Chapter 5

Geralt hadn’t seen Yen since “the mountain,” whatever that was. It was always said with a very grave tone. Perhaps that was just Geralt, though. Luckily, she wasn’t too hard to find, Geralt tracking some internal compass with a grim set to his jaw. Jaskier wished Mesmer was still there. Everything seemed calm and together with him nearby. Geralt always had some kind of tension about him that Jaskier worried had to do with him.

Camping with the Witcher and his small companion was strange, to say the least. Jaskier never really understood why Mesmer had so little trouble conjuring the things they needed, but it seemed Geralt could not produce fresh food, water, and sleeping arrangements while they were out on the road.

He noticed Geralt staring strangely at him the first few days together.

"You obviously knew me before this and have something to say, why don't you just say what you were going to say and get it off your chest?" Jaskier said one evening, when the tense stares had gotten a bit overwhelming. They were less than a day from where Geralt thought Yennefer was staying, and were taking a short rest after their morning leg of the journey. Geralt sat, poleaxed, at Jaskier's outburst.

He eventually spoke. "It wouldn't be the same," Geralt grunted, looking down at his hands. "It'd be like making a speech to a tree."

"I'll try not to resent that, thank you." Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Honestly, just say it, and I'll get over it. Probably. Are you so scared I'll react terribly?" He was barely past the final word before Geralt interrupted him.

"It was my fault you're in this mess in the first place!" Geralt suddenly shouted. "I'm sorry I fucking yelled at you on the mountain, and I'm sorry I called you a pain in my ass so much that you fucked off to a mystical river and bartered with a god to wipe your memories of me!"

The small gathering they were sitting in plunged into silence. Jaskier couldn’t see, but he was sure Ciri shared the same stunned expression at the outburst.

"Well I don't know anything about a mountain, but you're helping me, whether I'm a pain in the ass or otherwise. And I'm happy for that." Jaskier spoke softly, frowning at his hands as Geralt had just before. "I never thought I would be the kind of person to be yelled down a mountain, but...here we are."

The words did something to Geralt. His face went stony again, but there was a clear pain in his eyes that Jaskier couldn't fathom. "We should keep moving."

"Did that help?" Jaskier asked, skipping after him. Geralt did not answer.

The rest of their journey was done in near-silence, with the exception of Jaskier asking about certain things on the way there. Ciri was polite enough to answer him, and gave no indication he was of any trouble. It was a welcome reassurance after Geralt had essentially confessed that he'd cast him out. On top of a mountain, no less. “Was this the same mountain you last saw Yennefer on?” Jaskier called. Geralt walked faster.

Interesting times they must have had, indeed.

Yen's hut was, predictably, on the edge of town, modest on the outside, and mind-bogglingly expansive on the inside. "Don't sit down for long, Witcher. You're lucky I'm busy with something, otherwise I'll cut off your..." A woman rounded the corner to their trio. Her eyes, purple as the dawn sky, alighted on Ciri, and her words ran dry. "...hair."

"Nice to see you too, Yen. I...listen, I need your help, if you’ll hear me out." Geralt was shifting from foot to foot, a nervous gesture if Jaskier had any place to say so.

"You even have the bard with you again. How charming. Trying to recreate old memories, I see. What's wrong with him?"

"I beg your pardon?" Jaskier asked with a guffaw. "There is nothing wrong with the bard."

"Jaskier,  _ you're _ the bard," Ciri reminded him.

"Ah, well that explains that. There is still nothing wrong with the  _ me." _

Yennefer's face went from contempt, to confusion, to curiosity, to interest, and settled back on confusion once more.

"I can feel the magic on him." Jaskier's shoulders stiffened greatly at the sorceress' approach, sweeping up dramatically with a flourish of her skirts. "Sit, Jaskier."

"Not a bloody dog."

"You don't know what a dog is. You saw one and asked if they were Roach's family," Ciri said, rather unhelpfully.

"Please don't make me seem stupid in front of the beautiful woman, Ciri." Jaskier gave said woman a small smile, nervous as he could be. The only magic he'd seen so far had been from Mesmer's hand. This couldn't be too different, could it?

"Gods. Memory loss?" Yennefer looked up to Geralt, who nodded gravely. Jaskier was beginning to think that was Geralt’s neutral state: grave. "Let me take a look. Jaskier, close your eyes and think of something pleasant. I'm going to look into your mind. It'll feel warm. Tell me if you get uncomfortable."

"Alright," Jaskier whispered, doing as told. He could feel Yennefer waving her hand over his head, hovering and not touching. There was a soft, warm pressure, just behind his eyes, making him see purple the same colors as Yen's eyes, among the dark behind his eyelids. The heat and pressure increased a little here and there, and then withdrew all at once with a gasp from Yennefer.

Jaskier's eyes shot open. She looked pale as...well, pale as Geralt, to be honest. "Are you alright?" Jaskier asked, concerned by the expression on her face.

"He's Pure," Yennefer whispered shakily. She was looking at her hand, the one that she'd waved over his head and channeled her magic through. "Jaskier, what happened to you?"

"Oh, well, you see, there was this forest, big clean river, lots of fiddly little green things—”

"Plants."

"Plants!" Jaskier grinned at Ciri. "Yes, there were plants, and trees, and a blue man in the water, lots of strange things by a tree, and he seemed annoyed that I was in his river. He told me to go south again, and I did, through the forest, and the meadows, and the mountains, and the icy salt flats, and the—”

"The Kestrel mountains once more." Geralt finished. "He must have gone north immediately after..." He shared a look with Yennefer, eyes pleading and worried. “The mountain.” Yen took a seat and was quiet for a few moments, processing.

“What is this bloody mountain you keep prattling about?” Jaskier was ignored.

"Right. And you...have no memories before then?" Yennefer asked.

"Not a one, unfortunately. My friend Mesmer did a wonderful job of leading me to Geralt, though I do miss him."

"Mesmer?" Yen asked Geralt weakly.

"A god," he and Ciri answered in unison.

“A friend,” Jaskier said. He was ignored again.

"Ah. Go on."

"And then I met Geralt and we've been walking to you ever since. He told me something about a mountain and yelling and he said he was sorry for something, which, I don't think yelling an apology is a good enough apology for yelling at someone, that's just me, though, what do I know?"

"Nothing. You don't know anything," Ciri coughed.

"I know you're being a little thorn in my side," Jaskier said goodnaturedly.

"Right, anything else I should know? I don't think I'm going to be on my feet very much longer." Yen said, worryingly.

"Mesmer called the river the Lethe."

Yennefer passed out.

* * *

They were invited to stay at Yen's hut for the evening while she recuperated from the shock. Not only were the legends she heard true, but the evidence of them was also sitting right before her eyes. She took a breath and asked Ciri to explain again.

"He fell into the Lethe, the river of oblivion, and upon touching its waters, had his memories, good and bad, passed down the currents into the Mnemosyne, the river of all knowledge. And now he's...here."

"Right." Yen rubbed her temples. "Alright, this is fine. Yeah, my ex-lover is here with his totally-not-boyfriend of twenty years—”

_ "Yen." _

“—and also his child of surprise, after saying I was a fool for wanting a child in this world, and that he'd bound our fates artificially with a  _ djinn, _ which he hasn't apologized for, might I add."

"I didn't exactly want to lead with that, while I have someone in need, Yen. Is there somewhere...we can talk?" Yennefer waved him off.

"Give me some room to breathe, for fuck's—” She remembered Ciri,  _ and a Pure being,  _ were in the room. "Melitele's sake."

"Can you at least tell us what you mean by Pure?" Geralt asked.

"Mesmer also called me that," Jaskier piped up.

"Ah yes, Mesmer the god of things lost and destined to be found. Your friend." Yen groaned in her hands. Jaskier was pleased she at least remembered. "Let me get some food, first. I'm not suffering this conversation remotely sober." She started uncorking a bottle of wine.

"You told me wine wasn't food, Geralt." Jaskier protested.

"It's not. You can have wine for dinner when you're a mage."

"That's not fair."

Yennefer called for food to be delivered from the local tavern, and opened a bottle of wine. "The fucking Pure. Only you could get yourself into something like this, Jaskier." She shook her head. "What did Mesmer tell you of your condition?"

"Not much, really. He said he felt rather obligated to help me, though." Jaskier shrugged, trying to hide his worry that their friendship had been forced. He didn’t like being considered a burden.

"Right. Helpful as a god." She rolled her eyes. "The Pure were, or rather  _ are, _ a group of beings, living only, that have their souls wiped clean. Were we to be able to weigh it against a feather, it would be lighter."

"I prefer my soul where it is, thank you."

"There's a few legends I remember that bring up the Pure. One of them was that poison could not touch them, nor monsters draw blood. Nature wrapped its arms around them and they were not harmed for as long as their hearts beat. Any of that ring a bell?"

"Some plants...dance. For me." Jaskier didn't know how to explain it, frowning. Yennefer stood up, and retrieved two sprigs of leaves. She extended them both to him, holding them by the stem.

"Choose one to eat. Right now."

"Yen, that's—”

"Quiet, Geralt. Jaskier, choose."

The plant in her left hand had a few fuzzy black leaves on it, and looked like they would be nice to smell and touch. Jaskier reached his hand out, but the plant shrank back, retreating its black leaves toward the stem, wilting in Yennefer's hand. When he pulled back, the plant returned to normal.

He tried it with the other one, which did not sway back. "That one." Yennefer gave him the little sprig, and he held it gingerly to his nose.

"Mint." Yennefer supplied.

"Mint!" Jaskier exclaimed, breathing deep the sharp scent from the leaves. "What's the other one."

"Velvet Death."

Jaskier frowned. "That doesn't sound very nice."

"It's not. If you touched it, it'd kill you."

"Why doesn't it kill you?"

"Because I'm a sorceress. Plants need to try a little harder to fight immortals." Jaskier shrugged. That's fair. "Monsters. Have you run into any monsters?" Geralt made a pained noise when Jaskier nodded his head.

"It was just one! It walked away as soon as it got as close as from me to you." Jaskier said quickly. "I've never had a single part of nature try to hurt me."

"When I tried to probe past the beginning of his memories, the chaos...it snapped back at me. Like I was unwelcome in its realm." Yennefer said slowly, like she was figuring out the words as they came.

"I'm sorry," Jaskier said. "I hope it didn't hurt you."

She gave him a bewildered expression. "It's so strange to hear you speak so genuinely to me."

"I don't know that I can speak any other way, my lady."

* * *

While Geralt and Yennefer spent an evening walk in the woods, Ciri and Jaskier stayed in her hut, instructed not to touch a single thing they hadn't brought with them.

"He's been working on his apologies, you know," Ciri said, her forced calm belying her nervous nature. "He recited them to me as soon as he figured out what to say."

"Did he mean to yell an apology at me, then?" Jaskier said. "I hope he didn't yell at you."

"No, he was...just expecting someone different, is all." She looked at her hands. "I've lost a lot of things, too. Not as much as you, but probably a bit more permanent."

“What do you mean, Ciri?”

“I...I’m a princess of Cintra, a place you probably don’t know, and probably won’t ever know, since it fell. I lost...everyone.” Jaskier saw tears forming in her eyes, and held out his arms for an embrace. She fell into them easily. “Geralt is the only person I have anymore.”

“Well, you have me too, and I have you.” Jaskier kissed the top of her head, on instinct.

“Hugging you feels...strange. I feel warm. Safe. Lighter,” Ciri mumbled into Jaskier’s neck.

“I’m sorry?” Jaskier tried. It made Ciri laugh, but he didn’t know why. Yennefer and Geralt returned into the hut, looking a little frazzled but generally fine.

“Well,” Yennefer said. “Problems can’t be solved in an evening, but an apology is the first step to doing so.” Geralt nodded in understanding, and they nodded, before looking at Jaskier and Ciri, embraced on the small chair. “What happened here?”

“Ciri was telling me about Cintra.” The others tensed at Jaskier’s mention, but it was subdued when Ciri told them she was alright.

“Geralt told me he tried to apologize for what he did and you don’t even remember it, or him, or why. I told him he was stupid.” Yennefer slapped a hand over her mouth. “What in the actual fuck.”

“I told Yennefer I wasn’t sure if our love was—okay, what’s going on, what did you do?” Geralt frowned at Jaskier.

“I didn’t do anything!” Jaskier insisted, shifting Ciri on his lap.

“I think we’re compelled to tell the truth around the Pure. This could be interesting.” Yennefer frowned at the ceiling for a moment. “We need to get Jaskier’s memories back.”

There was no disagreement among them.

“It will be dangerous,” Geralt warned.

“I’ve already been on the trail there and back again, how bad is a third time?” Jaskier shrugged.

“But we wouldn’t just be going to the Lethe. We’d have to find the river it flows into.”

“Mnemosyne.”

“Yes, that. And really, no one knows what’s up there, even Witchers.”

They made some preparations. Yennefer said she would be able to portal them as far north as she could, and protect them no matter where they went. “If what Jaskier says is true, we might not be able to rely on natural water sources, lest we forget our entire journey’s purpose.”

So they made some more preparations. Unfortunately, amidst all the excitement of their impending journey, Geralt took to keeping his mouth shut around Jaskier, worrying the man greatly. He had something on his mind, and whatever power Jaskier’s Purity had in it, he didn’t want to speak the truth. One night at dinner, however, it came to a head.

“I would do anything for Jaskier. Fuck!” Geralt put his head in his hands.

It quite suddenly stopped all conversation in its tracks. Yennefer quietly ushered Ciri out of the room.

“I’m sorry about the...truth thing. But I don’t like feeling like an obligation, Geralt. Please don’t feel like you have to do this.”

“It’s not. You’re not. An obligation.” Geralt balled his hands into fists. “I promise you never have been and you never will be. Not to me.”

Jaskier didn’t know what to say. The depth of Geralt’s affections obviously went deeper than Jaskier knew, but the reassurance was there. He nodded and stood up from his seat, coming over to the Witcher with curiosity.

“May I…” Jaskier didn’t know the word for it. “Hold you? Briefly?” He held his arms out, as he’d done for Ciri.

“You want to hug me?” Geralt asked, bewildered. Jaskier grinned.

“Hug! Oh what a nice w—oof!” Jaskier was suddenly swept up in a large armful of Witcher. It was only now that he realized they were of a height, his face buried in Geralt’s long, white hair. Their days back in civilization meant Geralt was a little better-looking and better-smelling than normal, which was a relief.

“My medallion isn’t humming but I can feel magic on you, all over you,” Geralt said. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, hol—hugging you, that’s all.” Jaskier shook his head. “I’m not sure what I’m doing, Geralt. It just happens. Ciri said she felt warmer, lighter.”

“I see what she means,” Geralt murmured.

The next morning, Roach was packed up, and their bags slung over their shoulders.

Yennefer was quiet for a moment, before snapping her fingers. The hut disappeared like it was never there, a graveyard in its place. “Wow!” Jaskier gasped, grinning wildly at the sorceress.

“You don’t want to know where I put it.”

“To the contrary, my lady, I wish to know it all.” Suddenly, a swirling purple-and-black void appeared before them.

“Then let’s go find out,” Yennefer said, before all five of them stepped through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol sorry for the hiatus, you've been very patient and I'm happy if you're still here. Feeling the last bit of creative mojo before the new semester starts. love yall

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos appreciated! Come follow me on [tumblr](https://kaermorons.tumblr.com/)!


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